


Morning Sickness

by ladykiki



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Crack Lite, Gen, Nausea
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-03
Updated: 2016-01-03
Packaged: 2018-05-11 14:02:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,243
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5629129
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ladykiki/pseuds/ladykiki
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam wakes up nauseous.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Morning Sickness

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the "nausea" square on my h/c_bingo card. 
> 
> In retrospect, I may be a little fuzzy on the concept of hurt/comfort. I just couldn't resist.

Dean woke to the stomach-churning sound of someone dry-retching in the bathroom. He made a face and rolled to get a look at Sam’s bed, unsurprised to find it empty, the covers shoved down to the foot where his baby brother had scrambled out of it. “Sam?”

A groan answered him, but at least it sounded like it was actually in response to him, which meant the kid was both aware of his surroundings and responsive (both pluses); then he heard Sam spit, the toilet flush, and six foot four topped with tousled hair appeared in the bathroom doorway. Dean quirked an eyebrow.

“Shut up,” Sam murmured, pushing a hand up his face and back into his hair, mussing it up as he zombie-walked across the room to his bed. If it weren’t for the pale, clammy skin, he’d have looked about five.

“Did you brush?”

Sam grunted. Still nauseous, then. He crawled onto the bed and dropped down face-first before curling into a ball on his side. 

“Did you leave the fan on?” As if Dean couldn’t hear it running. “Please tell me you didn’t miss.”

Sam didn’t. He also didn’t flip him off or bitch about how he wasn’t five and Dean looked at him more closely. There were faint splotches of color high on his cheekbones. “You sick?” he asked. 

“No,” Sam said, low and muffled, forced past the edge of the pillow. He didn’t seem inclined to move, or elaborate. Dean let him be while he went to shower. The kid still hadn’t moved by the time he got out, his breathing regular but shallow, his grip tight on the pillow. Dozing, Dean decided, rather than properly asleep. He left Sam to it while he went to get breakfast, because he was an awesome big brother. Figuring out what the big girl would eat with his delicate stomach was a bit harder, but he grabbed some dry toast, some crackers, some soup, and a breakfast platter and figured the kid would eat something. 

Sam pushed up to sitting when Dean got back to the hotel, his color normal and his movements easier, and Dean figured it had been a case of rotten meat or bad dressing or something—something, once purged, that let the kid move on.

“You feeling better?” Dean asked, anyway.

“Yeah, I—” Sam made it halfway to his feet before he cut off, the color draining from his face fast enough Dean could see it, replaced with a faint green tinge that made Dean a little nauseous in empathy. Then the kid lunged for the bathroom. The door slammed behind him. 

It didn’t sound like Sam had anything left to bring up. Not that that was going to stop his body from trying. 

Unloading the crackers and soup, Dean took his breakfast with him outside and dropped the platter on the hood of his baby. He took a strip of bacon with him to the vending machine, then sat on the hood to finish his breakfast.

If they weren’t looking at food poisoning, it was probably stomach flu. If they were lucky, it’d be a twenty-four hour thing. Just, until it passed, Sam probably wasn’t going to be leaving the bathroom very much.

So he was a little surprised when Sam opened the door and leaned against the jamb. Dean flung a hand at him preemptively. “Dude, keep your cooties to yourself.”

“I’m not sick,” Sam said. He pushed his hair back and made a face. “Besides, you’ve been sitting beside me all day, you’ve already got my cooties.”

“Fuck off.”

“I’m not sick,” Sam repeated. And, ok, besides the vomiting, his color didn’t look too bad out in the light of day. “Except for the—” His hand flailed toward the bathroom instead of labeling it. “—I feel fine.”

“Fine,” he repeated dubiously.

Sam pulled another face. “Nauseous,” he admitted. “But I don’t have a fever. I’m not feeling achy. I don’t have chills. If the smell of food didn’t send me running to the bathroom, I’d be fine!” He flung his arms dramatically, jaw set mulishly and gaze direct, daring Dean to dismiss his conclusion. 

Dean shoved eggs into his mouth instead. “So what’s wrong with you, then?”

“I don’t know!” Sam flung the words the same way he flung his hands. “It’s—”

Dean waited, but Sam didn’t say what it was. His gaze slipped past Dean, focus turned inward as he picked apart whatever had occurred to him. Because something had occurred to him. His big brother had seen that look of realization too often growing up not to recognize it when he saw it.

“What?” he prodded, when it became obvious Sam wasn’t going to continue on his own. Sam looked at him, mouth pinched. “It’s what?” 

Sam shuffled forward so he was leaning back against the jamb instead of sideways. “That girl,” he said. “Marnie. She was pregnant, wasn’t she?”

Dean pulled his own face and didn’t answer. Sam was the one who cared and shared. The girl was a witch. That was all he’d cared about.

Sam nodded like Dean’d confirmed something, anyway. “She was pregnant,” he confirmed, looking away. “Probably still in her first trimester. Probably still has morning sickness.”

He looked sharply at his little brother. Sam rocked against the wall and didn’t look at him. “Morning sickness,” Dean repeated, and watched Sam’s lips press into a thin line. 

It took a moment, because morning sickness was a thing for chicks and he’d never had any extended exposure to pregnant women. But, eventually, his brain put together what he thought Sam was trying to tell him. He blanched. 

“Dude. Do not tell me you’re pregnant!”

“What? _No!_ ” Sam recoiled into the door, hard enough to swing it all the way open. “I’m not—” And then his brain obviously caught up with the implications, because the blood drained out of his face fast enough Dean was surprised he didn’t hit the floor.

Dean got his hands on his little brother’s arms, anyway, just to make sure the kid didn’t go down. He felt a little better about Sam staying conscious when the guy immediately latched onto his shirt. 

“I can’t be pregnant,” Sam said, and it wasn’t a question, but it was a plea for Dean to agree with him. And, ok, Dean didn’t honestly think there was a spell—no matter how vindictive the caster—that could get a guy pregnant or they’d have come across it before. It was far more likely that, like Sam had thought before Dean put this new and horrible idea in his head, the little witch had simply decided to share her misery with someone who’d never have known it otherwise. 

Pregnant women were crazy. 

“We’ll stop for at the convenience store for a pregnancy test,” he said, ignoring the martyred look Sam gave him. He’d even take pity on the kid and pick it up himself. He clapped Sam’s shoulder. “Now, come on. We’ve gotta go see a girl about a thing.”

He grinned. 

Sam let himself be shuffled inside. The kid steadied as they got their gear together to go confront the witch, even when he had to duck back into the bathroom to heave over the toilet when he caught a whiff of soup. 

Morning sickness. Jesus. 

“Should stop crying into your pillow, Samantha,” he called. “Even the girls are beginning to think you’re one of them.”

“Shut up, Dean.”


End file.
